


a trace of honey

by Xirdneth



Series: Hannictober 2017 [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (and by that I mean a barista), Coffee Shop, Coffee date, First Date, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannictober Challenge, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Tension, Will Loves Hannibal, a little bit.. at the beginning..., pumpkin spiced lattes, three days late to the game but I'm here baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:19:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirdneth/pseuds/Xirdneth
Summary: As part of the Hannictober challenge, inspired by the prompt "Pumpkin Spice".Two years after the fall, Will decides to celebrate their second 'anniversary': by surprising Hannibal with a trip to a coffee shop.





	a trace of honey

“You continue to defy my expectations, _Joshua_. I hadn't thought you meant _this_.”

        Hannibal emphasizes the use of Will's alias with eye contact, eyes unreadable. Not for lack of emotion, but the sheer overwhelming amount. Will doesn't care to dig deep into his empathy to figure out Hannibal's inner workings. The inevitability of Hannibal's opinion, good or bad, would be smothering if Will didn't secretly enjoy listening to Hannibal's petty gripes or, even more so, his praise.

        He quirks his eyebrow at Hannibal as they wait at the bar, fingers ghosting along the glass of the display case. He pays hardly any mind to the various delicacies and baked goods contained within. “I thought you knew I meant a _coffee_ date, _Lucian_.”

        Finding a cafe that fitted Will's desires had been a gruelling journey, one that required months of scoping out both literal locations and reviews, but _Ichor_ is worth it. Despite the pretentious title, though even that had been a plus when he considered how Hannibal might appreciate it, it is not so high-brow as to warrant any suspicion—after all, Will Graham is _not_ Bedelia du Maurier, and he'll be damned if two years of successfully being on the run is thwarted by Hannibal's overwhelming need for the unnecessarily luxurious—but nothing like Starbucks or its kin. Not only does he have a personal distaste for such an overwhelming popularity and all the flocks it brings, but it poses a true genuine risk: though the large amount of cafe-goers may prove to be adequate cover for them, the idea that someone may accidentally include them in the backgrounds of selfies and threaten their location's safety is one that fills him with nausea. What a horrifying concept: legendary 'Murder Husbands' Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, brought down by an Instagram post. He'd rather Freddie turn up on his door with a camera and shout _CHEESE!_

        “Forgive me for having other expectations when you mentioned the word _date_.”

        Will snorts. No doubt Hannibal had envisioned chandelier-lit dinners in some five-star restauraunt, drinking wine and dining on the highest quality of food, backed by an ethereal soundtrack of piano music, the angelic hymns of some operatic singer. The idea is not repellent, but he would never turn down the chance to take the infamous Hannibal Lecter by surprise. It thrills him to know that even after two years of continuous co-existence, he is still able to.

        “Lovers' quarrel?” suggests the barista, a honey-eyed woman whose badge reads _Cynthia_. Though the two of them had gone bloodless since their fall – it's the biggest contributor to their continued peace – Will has learned to absorb every piece of information about the strangers he encounters that his empathy doesn't provide. A tic adopted after Hannibal confessed to doing such a thing. He eyes the woman under the guise of friendliness, but nothing about her screams, or even whispers, suspicious. Either about her own nature or her perception of them. Rather, she is entirely open, enthralled by the two of them and their display of domestic banter. He envisions that she is a rather love-starved woman, over-attaching herself to each and every relationship she witnesses. It wouldn't be fair of him to begrudge her that idealism, or that obsession, and so he doesn't.

        “Of a sort,” Will responds with a small smile. He doesn't look her in the eyes, but at the bridge of her nose. “It's our anniversary.” He drops the word casually, but it's anything but. Hannibal stiffens, undetectable by anybody but him. It's the first time he's dropped the _a_ word, and he's well aware of the implications of it.

        “Oh! That's wonderful!” Cynthia gushes, eyes so wide they might as well replace her face, fingers pressed against the plump, brown curve of her cheeks. “Which anniversary?”

        “Second,” Hannibal responds, recovering quickly. He doesn't shoot Will a look, but he knows he _wants_ to.

        “Oh, that's _amazing_. That is so wonderful. You two are such a cute couple! I bet you guys must get that all the time,” she laughs, a little embarrassed at her own fawning.

        Will is struck by the ceaseless conspiracy theories regarding his and Hannibal's relationship—and the enigmatic nature of it—and the countless articles naming them as _Murder Husbands_. He has to swallow the urge to laugh. “You could say that.” Hannibal's lips twitch in understanding, in acknowledgement of the comedy of such a comment. Or perhaps he merely enjoys being referred to as a couple. God knows he reads over those _Tattle_ articles an awful lot. Enough for Will to decide questioning it would be futile. “Thank you.”

        “So are you guys like, kind of low-key or something? A coffee date seems a little _quiet_ for such a big day!” She quickly captures herself, blusters to correct herself. “Not that I'm ungrateful! _Ichor_ is always in need of charming customers such as yourself. It's just, it's such an awfully unique idea.”

        “Quite. So you can understand my surprise.”

        “Ha! I can! You have to admit, it's a cute idea and,” she winks dramatically, “a cute place.”

        Will can't help but eye Hannibal now.

        “I agree,” Hannibal says, allowing a proper smile to grace his features, lips closed but pulled up, cheeks rosy with genuine fondness. Will's chest fills with light, clogging his throat and blocking any kind of snarky retort he could summon. Instead, he pushes all that lightness into his own demeanour, softening any lingering harshness that has haunted his features and mauled any attempt to socialize pleasantly in the past. Cynthia is utterly bewitched already, but there's no harm in making sure. “I am very pleasantly taken by surprise. And I do enjoy surprises,” he adds, leaning forward a little in a parody of conspiracy, before leaning back to meet Will's smile with his own.

        “ _Ohhh_ … you two are _so_ sweet… ah… you know what!” Cynthia claps her hands together, struck by inspiration. “Two specialty lattes, on the house!”

        “Ah, we couldn't possibly...” Hannibal feigns objection, but Cynthia is not swayed.

        “No, no! It's an anniversary gift. Something to _spice_ up your day, haha!” _Definitely_ love-starved, though he appreciates her generosity. It's hard to accept such kindness at face value, but her defining oddity seems to be her little fascination with relationships. That much is innocent, considering the horrors he's seen, the horrors he personifies. “That's ah – that's a pun. Y'see, the specialty lattes are—to celebrate Fall— _pumpkin spice_. Heh.”

        Hannibal indulges her much as one would indulge an incessant animal desperate for attention. He chuckles, tone full of warmth that isn't because of her, the equivalent of leaning over and scratching her ear. Will, on the other hand, finds great amusement in the unintended word-play she evokes: _to celebrate Fall_. He's celebrating a Fall, but not the one that drains the green from leaves and chills the air. He's celebrating the fall that drowned the world with him in it and birthed him anew. “Charming,” purrs Hannibal. “If you insist, then we would be honoured to delight in some, ah, _pumpkin spice_.”

        Will nods in affirmation when she turns to him, seeking further approval. Actually, the thought is quite a welcome one. He does enjoy pumpkin spice lattes, not that he's had many a chance to indulge in it.

        “Excellent!” she beams. “I'll just be one moment. Would you like anything else while you wait?”

        “No, but thank you.”

        “No, that's fine.”

        “Great! Will you be staying in or taking out?” She so obviously wants the former. Will feels a pang of sympathy for this girl. He's far from a social creature, but it's moments like these where he misses the possibility of friendship. Now, he is a liminal creature; there is no room for anybody but he and Hannibal. Anyone else is a risk.

        Will turns to Hannibal and eyes him, the eye contact everything. They are no stranger to intensity, but this is something else. The giant, obsessive, romantic elephant in the room has not only been acknowledged, but named and accepted. Will wonders if Hannibal fears he's mocking him. Probing further, he ponders whether Hannibal has any room for insecurity in his mind at all. If he does, Will decides, then that small room is dedicated solely to them. He thinks, if he looks closely enough into his eyes, he sees into that room. “What do you think, Hannibal?”

        He hesitates for a moment, mouth working something over. When he speaks, it's clear whatever was on his mind will wait. “I feel like a walk.”

        “Me too.” Will nods and turns back to Cynthia, whose face has clearly fallen despite her attempts to conceal it. A pang of sadness for the girl. “To go, please.”

        “ _Aww_ , a shame. We need the life, haha.” She's not wrong. Another reason why this place is perfect: a small clientele, comprised mostly of privacy valuing regulars or pretentious tourists. Not a crowd nor a ghost town. “But I'll get right on it! Two PSLs, coming right up!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“So.” Hannibal speaks, staring ahead rather than at Will. His eyes follow passer bys, figures shrunken by distance. They always take the lesser populated paths. Now, it seems Hannibal intends to take them to a park. Will thanks himself for the coffee idea, as the autumnal air is unforgiving against his skin, even underneath his layers. The cup emanates heat, it sinks through his gloves and is drunk by his skin.

        “So,” Will echoes, sipping his drink, savouring the taste. It's been a _long_ time since he's had one, least of all one as good as this. Perhaps he _will_ chance a return visit to Ichor, but no more than once. Once more and he's a regular, a familiar face, and that's not something he wants. He'll have to learn to make his own damn pumpkin spiced latte. He'll weed out Cynthia's secrets in his second and last visit.

        “It's our anniversary, is it?” His voice is intimate in its quiet, hushed so that any prying ear – not that there are many: they are wandering now through the park's thresholds and upwards a winding, lesser travelled path. Though, even if they were to wander the streets of New York, he doubts it would be any difference. He wonders if there is anybody else on the world who could speak the language they speak, the one that is beyond mortal creation, and decides that, _no_ , there isn't. This is a language invented and sustained by the two of them, one that wears the suit of English as they wear the suit of men, one that exists deeper than bone.

        “Isn't it?” Will, still feeling a little giddy with the rush of surprising Hannibal so many times consecutively, raises an eyebrow and feigns offense. “Don't tell me you forgot. It's two years today.”

        “I'm aware,” Hannibal acknowledges, eyes closed off. Will doesn't need to decipher them anyway. He can _feel_ the vulnerability. The fall is a tender subject. Even referencing it feels sacriligeous. An experience that can only be expressed in their shared, incomprehensible language. Hannibal drops his eyes to the latte in his own hand. “I've never tried this before. Do you enjoy it?” he questions, the transition like honey; slow moving and yet smooth, sweet, almost. Will wasn't lying when he said it was a date, that much is clear. Hannibal is determined to make that so. He plays with the idea of assuring Hannibal that there's no need to enforce it – that it had never been deceitful – but the moment seems wrong. Instead, he allows his genuine surprise to show.

        “Seriously?” He scoff-laughs in disbelief. “That can't be true.”

        “I hardly ever had a reason to visit a coffee shop, not unless situations forced me to. Too many shops are that: shops. Commercial machinations only desiring to pump as many ingredients, artificial and choked by alterations, as they can in order to best get money.”

        Will regards him with a look that could be described as _impressed_. That and muted disbelief. “I never took you for an anti-capitalist.”

        “I'm not,” he responds plainly, “I find their inventive manner of achieving their goals to be respectable, if not admirable. I, however, enjoy knowing what I put into my body. Is that a crime?”

        Will sips at his drink, feeling it scorch his lips, and puts it back down. “It was,” he says, expression neutral but tone underlined with traces of humour. Hannibal appreciates it: his eyes twinkle impishly.

        “In some perspectives.” He taps two fingers along the side of his cup, rhythmic and slow. Will watches the hypnotic move of his fingers before averting it back to the scenery. “You never answered my question.”

        “What question?”

        “Do you enjoy it? Is the drink pleasant?”

        “Yeah. Why else would I accept it?”

        “Let's not pretend that you wouldn't accept coffee you despised in order to appease the feelings of a stranger,” Hannibal says, calm as anything. Will attempts to formulate a response but it blooms and decays in his mouth before it can break the barrier of his teeth.

        “Fair enough,” he relents, shrugging, “but no, I do enjoy it. It's one of my favourites.”

        “I had no idea you enjoyed it so much. You've never mentioned it.” There's genuine curiousity now, in Hannibal's eyes, as he regards Will.

        “It never came up,” he says, dry, “I've had quite a busy few years, and we've usually had much more pressing matters to talk about than my preferred coffee variants.”

        It's Hannibal's turn to surrender. “...Fair enough. I suppose this is the time where we finally speak about the _un_ pressing matters.”

        “I suppose it is.” A mouthful of pumpkin. Above, crows haunt the trees, but he senses no omen. Crows are clever birds, and he sees no reason to villify them due to pointless myths.

        “From this small excerpt, I can say I look forward to it.”

        There it is again: light surging into his chest, organs seraphic. Without even intending to, without an ounce of manipulation—however harmless—behind it, he smiles. “I look forward to it too.”

        They walk in comfortable silence then, accompanied only by the rustle of shuddering trees, the occasional reminder that crows are in the area. Will is half-way done with his drink when he realizes Hannibal still hasn't touched his own. “You're not going to try it?”

        “I'm not thirsty. And, I can gauge its taste exactly from smell alone," he reminds.

        Will rolls his eyes. “It's not the same.”

        “Pumpkin, of course, with hints of _allspice_. A dose of cinnamon. Traces of honey. Cream, for sweetener… shall I continue?”

        “Alright, I get it, show off.” _Looks like I won't need to go a second time after all_. He removes the lid to better allow him access to the mist rising from it. It's rich with scent, but it's nothing like tasting it. Of course, he isn't particularly gifted when it comes to the olfactor beyond what's normal, but he's pretty sure it's still not as good. “It's still not the same.”

        “You are, of course, entitled to your own opinions, Will. No matter how incorrect they may be.”

        Will scoffs again, another half-laugh, and eyes the orange of his drink. A thought strikes him. “I'll prove it.” Hannibal eyes him curiously, halting when Will halts, and watches as Will gulps down heartily with an expression of mild distaste—which is a hilarious expression on Hannibal Lecter's face when not instantly birthing a motive for murder—content to wait for Will's explanation. When he's finished drinking enough to get his lips suitably flavoured, as much as he can, he is quick to move: removing the drink from Hannibal's hand lest he get surprised and waste a free coffee, wrapping his other arm around Hannibal's neck, empty cup ghosting along the upper length of his jawline, and _pulls_ them together.

        Their lips meet as smooth as the position affords them. Hannibal's lips, cool and a little dry from the cold, soften instantly beneath the warm attack of Will's pumpkin spiced lips and as soon as Hannibal's eyes move from wide with shock to slack with pleasure, his lips open to welcome his pumpkin spiced tongue. He traces his tongue along the length of Hannibal's, tasting the faint traces of peppermint left over from his toothpaste. He insisted on brushing his teeth before leaving, perhaps because he expected a fancy meal surrounded by fancy people. Or perhaps, he muses as they melt closer together, Hannibal's hands coming to rest on his shoulders, pulling him closer into an embrace, because he had desired _this_ particular outcome all day.

        It would seem Cynthia is not alone in her state of love starvation. As it is, Will is plenty happy to sate that particular appetite, and allows himself to sink deeper into the kiss, ignoring the biting cold, ignoring the untouched latte still in his other hand, ignoring _everything_ but the moment. It isn't until he realizes he can't breathe that they part, foreheads pressed against one another, breath mingling with breath. Hannibal's, he notices with some pride, carries the faintest, tiniest trace of pumpkin.

        “Perhaps you were right about taste,” Hannibal says, his attempt at maintaining some cool dashed his heavy breaths, the steep rise and sink of his shoulders, chest pushing into Will's. “But may I hear your argument again? Just to make sure.”

        Will feels his eyes rolling again, plays with the temptation of pulling back, but finds that Hannibal's hunger for him is equal only to Will's own, and pulls him in again.

**Author's Note:**

> so, this fic is kind of all over the place (in my opinion) so forgive me! I was rushing since I'm quite a few days behind on the whole prompt thing, but I hope it makes enough sense to be a coherent and enjoyable read <3 trying to strike that balance between "playful banter" hannigram (more akin to the s1 dynamic) and the "mind games" hannigram is quite the challenge, lmao. i hope to one day build a little on this fic to better explain some stuff that was going on in my mind when i came up with it. as it is, i hope you all enjoy!
> 
> also, i'm on tumblr at @bedannigram! come talk to me or whatever you feel. i post linked updates to my active fic/one shots, along with anything regarding my fics in general (such as hiatus notes etc!) also! comment/kudos if you enjoyed this fic! your words brighten my day.
> 
> happy hannictober, everyone. <3


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